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How long for the small yellow flowers ride up from the grasses' bed, seem patient in that place--

What's seen of all I see for all I think of it--but cannot wait, no, cannot wait.

The afternoon, a time, floats round my head, a boat I float on, sit on, sat on, still rehearse.

I seem the faded register, the misplaced camera, the stuck, forgotten box, the unread book, the rained on paper or the cat went out for good.

Nowhere I find it now or even stable within the givens, thus comfortable to reason, this sitting on a case, this fact sans face.
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Author:Creeley, Robert
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Mar 1, 1993
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